Idols
by Ersatz.Love
Summary: One-shot, Axel's POV, slight AU. Most people only see beauty in perfection, but sometimes, beauty can only be found in destruction. And ice isn't beautiful until it shatters.


This one's dedicated to my dear friend and fellow writer Axie L. Kiryu, whom you should go check out right now if you haven't already. One of her ideas for Axel's past involved his growing up in a perpetually cold and snowy location, his father being an ice sculptor, and, well...I fell so in love with the idea that I had to write something for it. So here you are.

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

I hate this.

Clear. Crystalline.

Cold.

You are the living incarnation of what I hated then, what I should hate now. You are the living god that inspired those idols that he worshipped. You are what I am not, but you're still so. So. Smart.

It's funny. I imagined you'd be a woman.

It was never about me. It was always about you. I hated you. I would, if I had a heart. And I imagine, right now, watching you tremble like that, watching you cower, shrink, beg -- like ice melting into nothing -- I imagine I do. That I hate you. I don't have to try very hard. The memories are so very vivid, so very clear, solid...

Cold. Stinging, like the poison of a snake. A burning beneath my numb skin, like ice flowing through my veins. Except I'm smiling now. I wasn't smiling then, back then when I only smiled when I meant it. Felt it. Which I rarely did. I try to pretend that I feel it now, even though I don't. I have reason to now, you know.

Back then, looking at all those beautiful, beautiful ice sculptures...

I have wanted this for so very, very long.

I wish you could have seen them. I wonder what you would have thought. You're so stupid -- you probably wouldn't have given them more than a passing glance, dismissing them as little more than frozen water. H2O. Did you appreciate art at all, when you had the chance? Or am I not giving you enough credit here? Maybe you would have stopped and stared breathlessly, fallen to your knees and worshipped, almost like what you're doing now.

It's so easy now. It wasn't easy then. Back then, I was cold outside, and hot as hell inside -- total opposite of now. It's funny, right? I should love the snow. Growing up surrounded by those frozen effigies, I should have learned to appreciate their beauty, appreciate the effort that went into them, appreciate them for what they were. And maybe I would have, if someone appreciated me. But I couldn't hold a candle to those sculptures -- as much as I would have liked to. A candle wouldn't do, though. I needed a flamethrower.

It was an accident, the first time I learned to appreciate them. It was one of those that looked like it would tip over easily, hanging forward in a ridiculous pose that wasn't really interesting, but kinda gave the impression that it was moving. Striding forwards. Well, it did, after I bumped into it, and I tried to save it -- I really did, for real, because I knew my old man would be so pissed -- but ice falls fast.

So it broke.

Maybe at first it was the shock of what I'd done that kept me rooted to where I stood, but I couldn't stop staring. It was as if time itself had froze just then, and for the first time, I saw just how beautiful ice could be; shattered into a million pieces across the ground, it almost looked like broken glass, except it breaks in a totally different way and almost becomes snow, that's how small the pieces are, and...you would know, wouldn't you? But what was most interesting to me, was how there was absolutely nothing left of the statue. It was as if it never existed at all. There was no recognizable part amongst the other pieces -- as if all along, it had just been a bunch of tiny, tiny shards of ice scattered on the ground, slowly melting.

Yeah, I got a good black eye for that one. But it was worth it. And it didn't leave my mind, either -- even though I really, really didn't want to get up close and personal with that bastard's fists, there was something really addictive about -- this sounds weird, I know -- but the fact that it actually got his attention made me want to do it again. Even if it hurt, at least it was recognition. It forced him to acknowledge my existence. And that meant everything to me then, and it means everything to me now.

I guess that association was burned into my brain or something, because, well...here we are again. Breaking ice to prove I exist.

I did try to avoid it though. I really did. Here, too. Not because I really valued them, but because someone else did, and that made them important somehow. Well, they weren't what should have mattered. Could you really blame me for holding that grudge? You're colder than I thought. It's no wonder, really.

But the next sculpture he made had eyes that really, really bugged me. They were the most attractive part, I guess, made to stand out the most, and he put a lot of effort into them. Replicating a human being is really something else, you know -- it's something that can't really be replicated perfectly, but even knowing that, he'd...oh. You'd know all about that, too. Funny, you remind me of him more and more.

I tried to appreciate it. I really did. I stared at that damn sculpture for what seemed like forever, trying to see what he saw in it. His latest masterpiece. It stared back at me, looking oh so unfeeling, so emotionless, so hollow. I reached up to cup its cheek, ran my fingers over its cold, slick jawline, pressed my thumb against the pupils of its clear, colorless eyes -- I must've looked like a freak. And I absolutely didn't understand it. I could see my reflection in that thing's face, and its eyes looked green because _my_ eyes are green, and I thought, how could he love something that would never, ever love him back?

I pressed my forefinger against one side of its nose, braced my thumb against the other, and _wrenched._ It made a sound like a bone cracking, but I didn't feel nauseous in the slightest. It wasn't real, after all -- it wasn't as if I was destroying something that was real, so how could I honestly feel any guilt?

It didn't really break evenly. A crack shot back through its "skull" and branched out to cloud the rest of it with what looked like little white rods, and somehow, that looked so much more beautiful to me than it did when it was perfect. Maybe because I wasn't perfect. We could relate, then. But of course, he hated imperfection, and -- yeah, maybe that was what was wrong with me -- that bruise stuck around longer than I would've liked.

He made a bunch of idols at once, after that. I didn't see him for days, and when I finally did, my eye almost looked normal again. He forbade me to go see them, but that only made me want it more. Forbidden fruit and all that. I was obsessed at that point, I think -- craving his knuckles, addicted to the swelling -- I was _that_ desperate for attention. Pathetic, don't you think? Not as pathetic as you look right now, but I think you understand. You can relate.

So of course, the minute he stepped out for a while, I went to see the new pantheon. Each one was some forgotten and nameless god that deserved his attention far more than I did, despite having no real power or will or thought to wreak vengeance on those that didn't worship them. There had to be at least a dozen, all together...

I took a hammer to each and every one.

It's amazing how many different ways ice can break. Shatter. Crack. Split, section, be _dissected._ I guess that's what I wanted to know. Where he sought the beauty in making the imperfect perfect, making rough, uneven lines smooth and unnatural, I sought the beauty that could only be gotten through destruction. And I didn't stop until every single idol was nothing more than snow, never to be remembered. I didn't care about the consequences. Didn't even cross my mind, because I had never felt so satisfied, so _happy,_ as I did hearing and feeling and watching those emotionless faces break apart beneath that hammer.

And right now, with all of these memories oh so fresh in my mind, I feel that one in particular itching at me. I'm longing for that sense of satisfaction again, looking for that high, and even though it's just a ghost, just a memory, it's so close I can _taste_ it. I have my flamethrower now, so I don't need that hammer. It's like doing this would actually let me feel that joy again. I know there's never a high as good as the first, especially not now when I feel nothing, but it's so, so close...

There's not going to be a crack like iron striking glass this time, so I snap my fingers instead, and that's close enough. And up you go, beautiful ice god: here's your flaming chariot, ready to take you back to heaven where you belong. I am deaf to the fire's roar, listening for its crackling instead, comparing it to the sound of ice shattering apart and clattering to the floor in a million tiny pieces, and just like then, just like them, there's nothing recognizable left. You're gone. You won't be missed. Just another forgotten idol...

But I still.

Feel.

So.

_Cold._


End file.
